There Are No Easy Teams in the Second Division
We held onto first place in the league even without our main gunner, Jermain Defoe. It was the result of gritting our teeth through with the makeshift Christmas tree formation. In 23 matches, I'd notched 15 goals and 13 assists, putting me in the top ranks for scoring and assists. Labeled a "goal-scoring defender," I was drawing interest from Premier League clubs too.
"Welcome back! Jermain hyung!"
"Sorry for putting everyone through hell."
Ahead of Boxing Day, Jermain returned to the first team. West Ham was finally at full strength for the Boxing Day schedule.
December 21: Away at Walsall FC
December 26: Home vs Ipswich
December 28: Away at Nottingham
The champion would be decided by these three matches crammed into eight days. Norwich, in second, was breathing down our necks just four points behind. One slip, and we'd tumble from the top. Dropping to the promotion playoffs meant no guarantees, so we had to secure first place.
With steely resolve, we headed to the West Midlands for the first of the triple header.
Walsall FC was a historic club founded in 1888. But it was also an unlucky one, never once reaching the top flight in over a century. Mostly bouncing between the third and fourth tiers, their stadium was a modest 10,000-seater.
"Think of it as conditioning management. Don't push too hard."
"Got it, boss."
Before kickoff, manager Alan warned Jermain sternly. After over two months out, it would take time to regain match sharpness.
Peeeeep!—!!
The first half kicked off. Their front two, Jeff and Jimmy, were typical British strikers—power and physicality first.
I paired with Anton in central defense. Our players circulated the ball leisurely. Walsall, likely headed for relegation to League One, were the bottom feeders—we were looking down on them.
But.
Cornered by relegation, Walsall came out swinging from the start. They blatantly hacked at legs and swung elbows.
"What the hell!?"
"These bastards! That's too much!"
"Ref! That's a card!"
Walsall targeted our midfield engines, Carrick and Mark, first. Whenever one got the ball, two or three piled in, chopping legs to stop them turning. The duo took turns crumpling in agony.
Walsall rotated players to keep the fouling going even after cards.
"The game's flow is getting messed up..."
With our midfield control crumbling, Walsall counterattacked. They seized the middle and pinged long balls forward.
Anton and I battled Jeff and Jimmy in the air.
Thwuuuump!—!!
"Damn it! That guy again!"
Jeff and Jimmy were no match for me. I always won the headers first. Height, physique, speed, explosiveness, sense— I outclassed them in everything. They were the weakest strikers I'd faced in the Championship.
"Argh!"
Peeeeep!—!!
But true Brits don't back down easy. Jeff and Jimmy swung elbows openly to intimidate us.
Eventually, Anton copped an elbow to the eye in an aerial duel with Jimmy.
"You okay!?"
"Ah... can't open my eyes."
"Ref! What's a yellow for!? That's a red!"
Anton's eye swelled grotesquely. The medics checked him and shook their heads.
"Sub! Anton out, Tomas in!"
We lost our starting center-back in the first Boxing Day match. The ref gave Jimmy a yellow.
Heat started simmering in me.
"These fuckers... just you wait."
Grinding my teeth inwardly, I focused on the game. Leaving the back to Tomas, I pushed upfield.
"Coming!"
Paaaang!—!
"Shit! That guy's again!"
I intercepted a pass meant for Jeff and drove forward dribbling. Panicked Walsall players chased.
Thwump-thud!—!!
"Mark!"
I feinted a dribble breakthrough, then passed right to Mark and sprinted ahead. A crack opened in Walsall's midfield.
I hadn't rehearsed with Mark, but I knew he'd put it there.
Thwoooong!—!
"Yes!"
Mark lofted it perfectly to my predicted spot. Thirty meters out. Maintaining speed, I unleashed with my right.
Thwuuuuuump!—!!
The moment the ball met my laces, I felt it.
It was in.— I thrust my right arm skyward before it even hit the net. Pure, clean connection—like a swish in basketball.
Splaaaaash!—!
"Gooooaaal~!!"
The keeper dove, but it was futile. The topspin rocket tore the net. Fastest shot I'd hit this season—fueled by rage.
"How long we gonna tussle with these yokels? Let's smash 'em and head back to London."
I said it loud enough for Walsall to hear. Their captain Chambers exploded.
"Oi! Chink! What'd you say!? We're yokels?"
"Old man's ears work fine, huh."
"What!?"
Chambers, the veteran, flushed red and charged. Players from both sides clashed, halting play. The ref warned me and Chambers.
Peeeeep!—!!
Play resumed, but my fury didn't cool. Walsall's roughhouse kept boiling me to the brink.
Then—
Whaaaack!—!!
"Argh!"
Peeeeep!—!
A Walsall defender elbowed through-ball Jermain right in the face—knowing his orbital fracture history.
I flipped, charging their half. Jermain writhed clutching his face; that defender yanked his kit, yelling to get up.
Whaaaack!—!!
"You lost your mind!? Face okay? Jermain?"
I rugby-tackled the bastard flying, then checked Jermain. Enraged Walsall teammates shoved me.
Peeeeeep!—!!
Play stopped; Jermain went off for checks. I got yellowed with the defender.
"Ref! He knew Jermain's face injury and did it anyway. Dirty foul!"
"West Ham No. 3. Keep protesting, next is another. Back to position."
The ref's attitude fueled the fire more. He was the one ruining the game, stoking players' tempers. Proper cards early would've prevented this.
Peeeeeep!—!!
We fought on with ten men for a bit. Our faces hardened too.
I got their desperation—relegation scrappers. But this thuggery? Unacceptable.
In stoppage after 45 minutes, disaster struck again.
Michael Carrick built from the center circle, one-twoing with Mark. Walsall No. 8 slid in with a studs-up back tackle.
Thwuuuuuump!—!
"Aaaaaagh!"
Horrid sound; Carrick screamed down. I lost it completely.
I barely remember what happened next.
"These fuckers for real!"
Thwuuuuuump!—!!
I barreled into Walsall No. 8 shoulder-first, checked Carrick. He clutched his Achilles, howling. Medics stretchered him off.
Peeeeep!—!
"Walsall No. 8, West Ham No. 3—second yellows, red cards."
The ref ejected the Achilles-slicer and me.
I shot up yelling.
"This fair!? Your shit refereeing got three of ours injured!"
"Off the pitch now. Insult me more, post-match ban."
"... Fucking hell."
The curse slipped in Korean. The slicked-back British ref glared.
Wanted to deck him, but held back.
"Boooooo! Piss off, Chink!"
Thus, my first red card. Walsall fans jeered, eyes slitted.
Manager Alan silently patted my shoulder.
"How's Carrick?"
Michael the coach shook his head. Bad news.
I stormed the tunnel alone to the away locker room. Poor lower-league digs—cramped, stinking, filthy.
"Even the locker room's a shithole. Fuck!"
I vented in Korean solo.
Ejected in the first Boxing Day game. Anton, Carrick seriously hurt. Jermain unknown.
Teammates consoled later.
"Yeong-ung, not your fault."
"Yeah! Walsall scum and ref prick."
But faces grim. Thin squad, now key players out for Boxing Day.
Carrick: Achilles damage, season over.
Anton: Facial injury, out minimum two games.
Me: Red card, two-match ban.
Jermain's face okay enough for next game, thankfully.
"Sorry for screwing the team."
Next day at training, I apologized publicly. Seniors patted me.
"Why you apologizing?"
"Don't sweat it. Enjoy Christmas break. We'll bag the points."
Walsall united West Ham tighter. But losing midfield core Carrick and defensive anchor me? Catastrophe.
Christmas Eve. London buzzed festive everywhere. Pretty decorations, carols. Families and couples beamed with gift boxes.
I didn't fit the vibe at all.
"Maybe head to Korea for real?"